Starving Sherlock
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Moriarty has Sherlock right where he wants him. In a damp prison cell with very little food or water, Moriarty thinks he's killing Sherlock. But can he really be so sure he's got the upper hand? No slash. T for cursing and themes.
1. Divide and Conquer

_**Chapter 1: Divide and Conquer**_

Jim Moriarty roughly threw his prisoner into the jail cell, cackling, his Irish accent ringing off the walls. "Hope you enjoy your stay!"

Sherlock Holmes balanced himself out again perfectly and stood tall and proud, observing his new surroundings. Moriarty was pleased because Sherlock had come quietly…without real choice in the matter; be shot by snipers or be imprisoned, but that small fact didn't bother him. He wouldn't let that put a damper on his victory. He'd not shackled Sherlock, either, but had made him hold his hands as if they were. When the consulting detective refused, Moriarty was forced to hold them there with one hand while he led Sherlock with the other.

"You may have noticed," Moriarty continued casually, "that I've left you with your cell phone. You've really got no service down here, so don't even try. Let's just get to know each other, shall we?" Moriarty sashayed to the bars of the cage so that his chest was touching them. Sherlock was watching him like a hungry snake from the center of the cell. "I'm going to find out what makes you tick, Sherlock Holmes. Even if I have to rip you apart organ by organ!" And he laughed, turning away from the bars in a spin, dark eyes bright and very, very wide.

Sherlock didn't really care about being imprisoned. His heart—that is, those he cared about despite the illusion—John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and the other detectives, even his brother Mycroft, was what mattered to him. As long as _they_ were alive…well, his life didn't matter. And he hoped that Moriarty would be too busy 'playing' with him to pay any attention to anything else. He walked slowly to the back of the cell, sat upon the wooden board chained to the wall that was probably supposed to serve as his bed (he had to smile—Moriarty was always one for a show) and looked Moriarty right in the eye. "What are you going to do with me?" It wasn't a frightened question and indeed held no fear. Sherlock was quite certain that he would be able to escape before Moriarty killed him, and the question was casual, as if he were asking John what sort of tea he wanted, a simple question back in the flat, deprived of anger or fear.

Which is what Moriarty wanted. Fear. He stopped dancing giddily and stared at his prisoner with soulless eyes. "What am _I_ going to do? Oh, _Sherlock_!" Moriarty swept forward with emotion, as if Sherlock had proposed or something. The tall man was actually taken aback. _Idiotic_. Moriarty cackled, especially as he caught Sherlock unhinged. "Before I burn the heart out of you, I'm going to try a more fun route to see if that will work. Because if I'm going to kill you, it might as well be…entertaining." He licked his lips as if hungry. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his brain trying to work out exactly what his nemesis meant. Forget Mycroft's status as his 'worst enemy.' Put Moriarty there instead.

Despite, Sherlock fought to keep his voice level and emotionless. "Meaning…?"

At this, Jim Moriarty laughed a maniacal laugh that Sherlock unconsciously retreated from; he hadn't noticed this fact until his back hit the cold stone wall. "Sherlock, dear," Moriarty purred, "you may be on the _side_ of angels, but you _certainly_ aren't one of them!" There was one overhead light, a bare bulb with a little pull string. Moriarty, cackling, reached up and turned out the light. There were two small barred windows in the room, and it was not nighttime yet though it would be soon, so pale light still allowed Sherlock to see his (newly crowned) worst enemy. But darkness meant uncertainty, something Sherlock feared secretly, and he scowled. "Nighty night, Shirley," Moriarty giggled, walking away up the stairs they'd come down.

Sherlock waited until he heard the last of Moriarty's steps fade into the distance. Then, he stood up and turned around once, slowly, taking stock of the room he was in. It was a prison cell with rusty bars and a polished iron opening. Bars were deceptively rusty, then; they were in good shape. Even at his strongest, Sherlock couldn't bend metal. There was the 'bed' against the wall and a dubious toilet in the front of the cell. No mirrors, no amenities, nothing to suggest a human had lived here recently. There were the two windows, one above his bed and the other beyond the bars where Sherlock couldn't reach. They were high, small, prison windows with polished bars. Sherlock stood upon his bed—shaky bed—and had to stand on tiptoe to look out, and not comfortably, either. It overlooked nothing recognizable, no noticeable landmarks or street names. A flower of loneliness and despair rooted in the center of Sherlock's chest, but it was not enough emotion to actually stir him. He touched the walls with his gloves, unable to see very much in the dimming light. He could feel a draft coming through multiple places in the wall. Not well-insulated, then. Sherlock tapped his feet against the floor. It was stone at least three feet down, impossible to escape through. Damn.

Sherlock blinked, his vision blurring. He recognized that he was tired. A long day of chasing down murder after murder, finding Moriarty at the heart, snipers trained on his chest, running, running, running about like headless chickens, he and John and the best of Scotland Yard. All for this.

Well, then.

Sherlock sighed. It was obvious he wasn't getting out of here tonight, and maybe a few minutes of sleep would help him think clearer. After all, Sherlock was not adverse to a nap.

He lay down on the board as much as he could, for the board was designed for shorter men in mind, and pillowed his head with his hands before drifting off into slumber.


	2. Only Fools Run at Midnight

_**Chapter 2: Only Fools Run at Midnight**_

Sherlock sat up as if he'd had a nightmare, his heart pounding. He had, in fact, had a nightmare of sorts. Luckily, only part of it appeared to be true and the others were still alive.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was a gift basket in the front of the cell. It was wrapped in red cellophane, the contents thus obscured. Sherlock peered—he had to, for it was still dark, and he guessed it was about five in the morning—trying to see if Moriarty was here. No such luck. His nemesis apparently wasn't here. _He couldn't keep so quiet for long, anyway_, Sherlock thought, swinging his legs around and getting up. He brushed himself off and worked out kinks in his knees and back from the weird and frankly uncomfortable way he'd slept. Then, he walked cautiously towards the gift basket.

After deciding it was not a bomb, he knelt down and read the tag. _My dear Sherlock, I left you some creature comforts. Feel free to use them. XOXO, JM_. Sherlock discovered that there was a flap built into the bottom of his cell so he could get at the small basket and bring it through. Interesting. He made a mental note of that as he took the offered gift. He opened the cellophane, nearly going deaf from the sound (it was so quiet, Sherlock thought he could hear his own breath), and looked inside.

The contents included a brush (a woman's, but Sherlock needed that kind anyway because of his thick curls), a travel-size toothbrush and regular sized toothpaste (indicating that Moriarty intended to keep him longer than a week, which was about how long travel-sized toothpaste lasted), and a box of orange juice (a common feature at school lunches). Sherlock brushed his teeth and combed his hair, but not before checking for toxins, and then turned his attention to the juice. He shook it lightly and opened it to smell it. It looked, smelled, and tasted like real orange juice, if not horrid quality. Sherlock didn't really like orange juice, unless he was sick and John made him drink it, in which case, it reminded him of being sick, and even the little sip he'd taken of it made him feel queasy. The orange juice went ignored. Sherlock returned the gift basket and cellophane without thinking (actually, to be more precise, he shoved it out of the flap with his foot) and paced about his cell.

He counted three spider webs in different corners, small crevices where bugs came and went in the base of the walls, and a piece of chalk (education quality—thin and white, used by teachers, not street chalk and not a toy) which interested him most of all. He made a line on one of the dark bricks that made up the wall, deciding that the place was drafty but not damp, as a way of keeping track. In roughly half an hour, he'd have been here twenty-four hours.

Sherlock yawned, bored. He lay down on the makeshift bed and took out his mobile, studying it. The battery was at full strength and would probably last for about fifteen days if he didn't try to connect to the Internet or use his GPS. As Moriarty had told him, he had absolutely no service. Sherlock was tempted to access the Internet out of boredom, or check his GPS to see where he was. Wait…that was worth losing battery life for! Sherlock accessed his GPS…but he could get no satellite to connect to him, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock shut off his phone in frustration and thrust it in his coat pocket. Damn.

Sherlock sat heavily on his rickety bed and put his head in his hands. He ruffled his long, pale fingers through his curls and tried to think. The murders seemed to have no connection or hints on the surface that could've led to this. James Moriarty (he preferred "Jim," which meant he loved the feel of familiarity though he commanded respect) had simply threatened him randomly. Was the randomness planned, or was it truly…random? Sherlock's head spun in dizzy circles and he couldn't quite concentrate. Just as he was about to turn around to sit upside down to make the blood flow better (perfect for retrieving information, horrible if you happen to have been eating very little for several days) when a siren startled him.

Curiosity killed the Sherlock. The consulting detective leapt agilely up onto the bed and stood on tiptoe, however painful it was on the balls of his feet (in dress shoes, the position pinches horribly), to see out. He saw an ambulance and several police cars go by. He identified London police cars, but didn't see the driver. Hm. So they were still in London, then. But where in London…?

"Sherlock!" The voice almost gave Sherlock enough of a fright to fall off the bed, but he managed to descend much like a graceful, thin black alley cat from a tree branch or windowsill or anywhere else that cats enjoyed perching. Sherlock relished the thought that he looked rather catlike, and had the sudden, unexplained urge to lick the back of his hand and blamed it instantly on lack of sleep.

But he certainly was baring claws, so to speak. It was Moriarty. Predictably. And something that smelled delicious. "Hope you don't mind my intrusion," Moriarty grinned, setting down the fancy tray down at the table (table? Since when was there a table? Sherlock took mental notes with frantic eyes: collapsible, easily hidden, picnic style; suggested convenience and familiarity both. What was he up to? Sherlock was back to staring down his nemesis by now) and turning back to Sherlock. "I was just going to have some lunch when I thought, 'oh'!" And he popped up on his toes like a child. " 'I_ must_ join Sherlock!' So," Moriarty sat down in the chair (chair? Since when was there a chair? Was he really slipping? Sherlock wanted to beat himself up and bite at his wrists—a habit he'd picked up as a frustrated teen in a big city and one which John hated immensely) and opened the platter. Sherlock understood the smell. _Oh_. _Lunch_.

And lunch it was. Hot, buttery pasta with little flecks of basil in it. Sherlock felt himself drawn to the dish—he loved, loved, _adored_ pasta—but kept his hunger and his tongue (it was threatening to appear) in check. However, he did lift his wrist and bit at it angrily, trying to focus.

"Here I am," Moriarty continued, tucking a napkin at his neck (he was wearing a handsome business suit) and digging through the curly pasta with a fork.

Despite having an iron will during a case and a general ability to turn down food, Sherlock was mortal. _Oh_. Sherlock was saved from his (dangerous) thoughts and his mind turned from his (half-starved) stomach with whip-like speed. "Mortal" was the key word. Moriarty had misquoted him, but had said it correctly: he was _not_ an angel. He was a mortal man who, though with iron will and extreme stubbornness (perhaps a hint of anorexia mixed in, no doctors were really sure and Sherlock himself didn't like to think so), could hunger. And would die of starvation eventually. Sherlock got it. And his eyebrows raised. "You're going to starve me," he mused.

Moriarty paused in his eating (he'd been eating the pasta slowly, almost sexually, if you wanted to think in those terms) to clap his hands gleefully and turn around in his chair so that he was facing Sherlock head-on. "Yes! You've figured it out! Oh good! Tell me, how am I doing so far?" He leaned forward in mock interest. Sherlock removed his gloves testily and pocketed his hands. "Did I hit a spot in you? Is pasta good? Do you _like_ pasta?"

Sherlock _did_ like pasta, as we have said. Although he preferred just a touch of Parmesan on top, Moriarty had got the recipe just right. And it was tempting our poor, hungry consulting detective. But Sherlock stilled himself against it and turned up his nose, biting his tongue to keep it inside his mouth where it belonged. Because for God's sake…he was practically on a case.

Moriarty chuckled, and for a second, Sherlock was afraid his ruse had been spotted. But his nemesis simply went back to eating happily. Sherlock stared at the disgusting toilet for a while, and that sort of put his appetite in its place. Then, he went back and lay down on his bed and curled up, facing the wall. His great coat flowed off the side of the board like a waterfall. He needed to get Moriarty talking, find out what other plans he had in store, because his hunger would get no easier to deal with. He'd been chasing murders since breakfast yesterday, and had been preoccupied, so in two days and a half, he'd eaten nothing but half a slice of toast, despite John's usual worrying. _"Sherlock! You __**need**__ to eat something more than half a slice of toast!"_ For once, Sherlock almost (hungrily) wished he'd listened. He could sense Moriarty watching him, so he rolled off the bed and went to the edge of the bars.

"I got your little care package," he said in a low voice that was neither hostile nor friendly.

"Oh good!" Moriarty tried to grasp the lapels of Sherlock's coat, but the detective pulled away sharply. "Did you like it?"

"Actually, yes," Sherlock purred, letting his voice go soft. He was testing his nemesis, trying to see if he'd fall into his trap. The consulting detective felt like a long legged, lanky spider, and indeed looked like one, ice blue eyes intent on the kill. "I do so love my appearance."

Moriarty laughed. "But, do you like the pasta, Sherlock?"

So they were back to that again. Sherlock figured that was probably the point, if Moriarty was intending to take him down by going through his stomach. But he feigned disgust and turned up his nose. "No, actually. I don't like pasta." Part of him was screaming: _Lies! All lies!_ But he wasn't playing around with John in the flat anymore, and lie he had to.

Suddenly, before Sherlock could register, Moriarty grabbed Sherlock by the scarf and pulled him to the edge of the bars. While the detective was stunned, Moriarty shoved something slimy and warm into his mouth, following it with his fingers. As a reflex, Sherlock swallowed, and felt too late the warm slimy thing travelling down his throat. Moriarty let him free as he coughed, trying to bring whatever it was back up. "_What_ did you _feed me_?" Sherlock snarled, his ice blue eyes as cold as they could ever get.

Moriarty giggled. "Don't worry, Shirley. It wasn't poisoned."

"_What. Was. It?_" Sherlock growled, baring his teeth.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, clucking his tongue. "Testy, testy. It was just a noodle."

Noodle? Sherlock rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Besides the faint taste of Moriarty's fingers (all buttery from the pasta, don't make me gag), Sherlock could indeed taste noodle. While immediately he wanted more, as his body was sort of cued this way towards food, he turned away.

"Ahh," Moriarty smiled. "I _knew_ you wouldn't be so easy! Well, we'll try again in a little while, and maybe I'll get to break you then. How does that sound?"

Sherlock tore off his scarf off and threw it aside in frustration. Moriarty left, taking the pasta with him. The detective heard his light footsteps ascending the stairs. Good.

The detective shrugged out of his coat and laid it flat on his bed. Then, he situated himself so that he could sit upside down. And then, he let the blood rush to his head as he did what he did best: let the facts add themselves up in his head.


	3. Brevity is the Soul of Wit

_**Chapter 3: Brevity is the Soul of Wit**_

Sherlock stood before the tally marks he'd made on the wall. Between listening to Big Ben chiming and the occasional use of his mobile, he'd been able to keep track of how long he'd been here. He heard the clock strike and dutifully made another chalk line. It had been three days since Moriarty had made an appearance, making it four days altogether. Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat or his scarf to avoid accidental force-feeding, but his formal jacket was not enough to guard him against the cold draft that snuck in through the crevices in the walls. Sherlock needed to know what Moriarty was up to. He was _begging_ for a visit from the consulting criminal.

Yes, Sherlock was bored. He had no gun to shoot at the wall and no equipment to do experiments with. He'd been forced to use the dubious toilet over the past couple days, but he always felt dirty afterwards. The first thing he wanted when he managed to get out was a shower. A chemical shower, preferably, that would burn all the impurities from his skin.

Sherlock shivered and pulled his jacket around his body. Then, he sat patiently and waited.

Big Ben had chimed thrice since he'd marked a new day, and by the dim lighting outside, that made it about five o'clock. Sherlock only looked up because there was Moriarty prancing down the steps, a platter held high in one hand. Sherlock sniffed and knew what he was to be tempted with. Chicken, stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce. It smelled like the American holiday Thanksgiving. Sherlock thought a holiday celebrating stuffing your face was absurd, and he wasn't exactly a fan of the food he smelled. But, eager to get Moriarty talking, he walked steadily to the front of the cell and sat down on the cold stone floor, crossing his legs.

Moriarty noticed and gave a little feminine wave. "Hey, dear Sherlock! Did you miss me?" Sherlock made no response, except to press his hands together and bend his elbows so that the nails of his thumbs were pressed against his lips. It was his thinking pose, one he used when he was deep in thought, but maybe, Sherlock hoped, Moriarty identified it differently. The consulting criminal grinned and Sherlock cheered in his head. _Yes!_ "Hungry, dear?" Moriarty teased. And then his face fell. "Well, _TOO BAD_!" He yelled. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

Moriarty walked once around the small table and then sat, removing the top from the platter. Sherlock had been correct, of course, even after only using his nose. He wasn't the world's only consulting detective for nothing, after all. But he needed to find out what Moriarty's plans for London (and possibly the world) were. "That looks good," he began in what he hoped was a soft, weak voice. He didn't have to try so hard—his voice was hoarse from disuse. He purposefully licked his lips slowly, sealing the flavor of the air inside his mouth. Of course, he didn't like the food. But Sherlock was good at disguises, and therefore a good actor.

"It is," Moriarty purred, already swallowing his first bite. "I feel like I'll gain weight, dear Sherlock. I simply _must_ stop eating so richly." Sherlock let out a groan, which had the desired effect. Moriarty giggled. "Poor baby. I'll give you a little consolation prize," and he produced another small gift basket, wrapped in pink cellophane this time. Sherlock blinked, watching Moriarty place the basket before him. Sherlock gingerly accepted the basket and opened it. Inside were two large water bottles and several decent-sized bouncy balls—the ones that children begged their parents for, that were always displayed in vending machines. Sherlock lifted one in amusement before quenching his thirst.

"You should make your water last, dear," Moriarty sang, muffling a burp. "I won't be giving you more for quite some time!"

Sherlock put the bottle down and went back to staring at his nemesis' food. He made sure to follow every movement of the fork religiously, as if it were interesting, and remembered to lick his lips and sometimes moan softly when Moriarty bit into the turkey. He hoped that portraying weakness flawlessly would entice his nemesis to talk conversationally. Moriarty was noisy and loved to hear himself talk, similar to Sherlock's ego. He knew that Moriarty wasn't about to go spilling his plans to his nemesis. The consulting criminal was far too smart for that. But now a _weak_ and _hungry_ Sherlock…that was a different story. A Sherlock transfixed by food. Too transfixed to listen properly. Sherlock cheered inside his head when Moriarty took a long drink of wine and began to talk.

"I'll be hosting a party," he began, sickeningly happy. "_All_ the criminals in my network are invited. Of course, only a few will show up, but those are the _real_ V.I.P.s, Sherlock." Moriarty bent to Sherlock's level. The consulting detective had the good sense to jump, as if he was surprised that another person existed in the room. "Believe me. We're going to have a _great_ time!" Moriarty cackled and left, the remains of his food sitting out, probably designed to force Sherlock to sit in front of the bars.

Sherlock remained where he was, eyeing the room for cameras or other surveillance equipment. Finding none, he rose to his feet and began absently bouncing one of the balls he'd been given. A party with the 'V.I.P.' criminals of London? Oooh, this he _had_ to see!


	4. Where the Bee Sucks

_**Chapter 4: Where the Bee Sucks**_

It was three more days before anything of interest happened. Three days that were long and tiresome and boring. These three days were not as easy for our consulting detective as the others before them because he was beginning to feel hunger pangs.

It was the middle of the third day, about. At the end of today, Sherlock would be in captivity seven days and would have been without food for eight. It would be nine, if not for the half a slice of toast he'd eaten at breakfast that day so long ago. Sherlock shook his head. If his mind was getting poetic, he knew he had a problem. He needed something to occupy his mind, to drive it _firmly away from_ the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness and ache in his stomach.

He thought back to the first murder. A woman about thirty years of age was killed in a bakery. (Sherlock's mind filled with images of freshly baked bread—he pushed it away). Her husband owned a small delicatessen (Sherlock's brain gave him a beautiful image of a delicious-looking sandwich—and again, he pushed firmly past it), and he was the prime suspect. The woman's twin sister who owned a bakery was presumed a co-conspirator. Sherlock allowed himself to consider the bakery. It was a small place, family-owned until the deceased had married, well-known for their fabulous pastries, including Bakewell tarts.

Mmmm…Bakewell tarts. Sherlock groaned and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. This wasn't an act. He was sitting on what had become his bed, leaning against the chains that suspended it, his legs stretched out as far as they would go. His stomach was growling now, a sound that wasn't foreign to Sherlock, but often went ignored because of a case. Although never, never had Sherlock heard it at volume. Sherlock wet his lips, thinking of home sweet home in Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson was a good baker. She'd been an aunt to her sister's children, and thus had learned skills in the kitchen to entertain the little ones. But, with her nieces and nephews grown, John and Sherlock were the only ones left to appreciate her delicious works of art. Sherlock didn't know how John felt about Mrs. Hudson's pastries, but _he_ couldn't resist them! Or, at least, half the time. The other half of the time, he was on a case.

Sherlock draped his long arms languidly across his midsection as he pictured his home. 221B Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson made the best Bakewell tarts in all of London! Sherlock's perfect photographic memory allowed him to visualize her small, white fridge. His mind indulged him by opening the door to see what was there. Some assorted juices in cartons and leftovers in neat little Tupperware containers, lots of baking supplies, some medicine for her hip chilling near the butter and eggs. But what caught the attention of his mind's eye was the perfect little assortment of homemade Bakewell tarts set out on a neat little platter, calling to him.

Sherlock unconsciously opened his mouth as his mind's eye, apparently as hungry as he was, reached out to grab one. Sherlock was so (delusional? Ecstatic? Dazed? Dreamy? Hungry?), he could feel the weight of the tart in his hand, the sharp coolness it had from being in the fridge. That didn't matter. The cold only improved the taste. He could almost feel it go into his mouth, could taste perfectly the flaky, golden crust, the sweet jam, the soft fondant spread over the top—! Sherlock closed his mouth and let out a sigh as he swallowed his imaginary meal, his stomach rumbling away like a motor.

All right, he admitted it. Sherlock readjusted himself against the chain and finally pressed both hands against his midsection. He was hungry. No, after that little mental exercise, he was _starving_. Having the ability to absorb facts, feelings, tastes, smells, all that was a curse in this situation. Sherlock's tongue slipped out of his mouth and slicked around his lips repeatedly, as if trying to lick away the crumbs from the tart. He'd never felt so hungry in all his life, and it was beginning to take a toll on him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled his knees towards his chest. A little sleep would do him some good, and probably take his mind off his stomach for a while. But Sherlock couldn't sleep. He didn't _need_ sleep. No, food was what he needed. Sherlock pulled his thin hands up to his face and hid inside them, frustrated, his eyelashes tickling his palms as he blinked, surrounded by darkness. He realized faintly that another feeling had accompanied the thoughts of his home in 221B Baker Street.

Loneliness. Sherlock felt that a deep hole had opened in his chest and everything inside was seeping out. He was crushed by this feeling, which wet his eyes and churned his stomach and made his head throb painfully.

Homesickness. Yes, he _missed_ the mundane activity of 221B. He missed John and Mrs. Hudson. He missed his soft, comfy bed. He missed the familiar wall and his armchair and his dressing gown and nicotine patches and the soft couch and his laptop and solving cases for Lestrade and his experiments. Everything. Sherlock wondered if Scotland Yard had learned anything useful about his whereabouts. They had to be looking—John saw him get captured, anyhow.

Sherlock forced himself to get up and walk around a bit. Cataloging the weakness in his legs was a good enough diversion and as he paced, he began to think freely. All the murders had happened in places where food was sold or made. The first murder had been in a bakery, the second in a rundown sandwich shop, the third in a fancy restaurant, and so on. Sherlock remembered the effect that the setting of the first murder had on him—he'd been able to imagine bread, and facts from the case led to his fantasy tart. Moriarty had committed these murders for a reason. So, he _had_ planned to capture and starve Sherlock, and had thought (quite correctly, Sherlock was loathe to admit) that the settings would later drive Sherlock's hunger up the wall.

But Sherlock, starved as he was, was not about to be beaten so easily. He tightened his belt a notch and then sat down under his tally marks on the ground. He pulled a bouncy ball from his pocket and began absently playing catch with himself, thinking, with the soft sound of the ball bouncing as background noise. He began humming to himself, and realized with some amazement that it was a tune Mrs. Hudson hummed while she baked.

Sherlock caught the ball and his body became limp against the wall. A draft blew through him, and he shivered, hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm. His shirt, jacket, and pants had become loose during his time imprisoned, which didn't help matters. Sherlock grit his teeth. He was really trying to force himself to be battle-ready, to be the great consulting detective he was, to push past hunger as if it was nothing.

But even the great Sherlock Holmes, a master at starving himself, couldn't go hungry forever. Sherlock reached for one of the water bottles and took a long drink. The water sloshed uncomfortably in his stomach as he shifted, but it was better than being horribly empty. Feeling sleepy from boredom, Sherlock was about to doze off when footsteps alerted him.

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, dizzy from the swiftness of his movements, and listened hard, leaning against the prison wall until the shaking in his legs dissipated. There were two sets of footsteps, one belonging to a pair of ladies' heels. The other footsteps were thick and heavy. Neither of these were Moriarty, unless the consulting criminal had taken a liking to drag. Sherlock giggled into his hand, a little drunk from his hunger. It was an amusing mental image: Jim Moriarty with makeup, a dress, and heels.

What appeared from the stairs were two people who obviously worked for Moriarty. The woman looked like a prostitute: hair wild, face made-up so that she looked something like a clown, lipstick an appalling shade of red, barely wearing clothes, heels an uncomfortable height (how did women _walk_ in those?). She was a brunette, but not a natural one. Sherlock thought that perhaps she had been a blonde once, but he couldn't be sure. He pushed himself away from the wall and gave a once-over of the man.

The thug who accompanied the woman was a hefty man with thick, muscular arms. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how the obviously obese man (about as tall as Moriarty, maybe a head shorter) kept the muscles he had on his arms. His clothes were sweaty and filthy, a tank top and jeans. The white shirt had sweat stains and grease from some recent meal. The man was balding, also, and had the general look of thugs in action movies: unintelligence and brute strength.

Sherlock felt smug in spite of himself. Weak as he was, his brain was obviously still in top-form. If all of Moriarty's thugs were all brawn and no brains, he would be a cinch to beat.

"Are you comin to the party, Rose?" The thug asked the woman.

"I'm not so sure. Jim invited me, but it all seems so violent," the woman called Rose purred, her voice soft and sexy.

The thug gently took her chin in his hands. "It'll be fun, baby," and he pressed his lips against hers. Sherlock felt the need to draw attention to his presence, but fought the urge incase the exchange could benefit him. "Mr. Moriarty's gonna let us play with his little doll."

"Oooh," Rose pulled away from the thug, much to his disgust. "Is the little doll here, Mic? I want to see him!" She giggled, looking into the cell. Sherlock sank soundlessly into the shadows to avoid being seen. "Jim's been talking _volumes_ about the dark-haired dolly! I wonder if he's down here!"

"Stupid whore," the thug Mic punched the girl across the face. Sherlock frowned, for despite his disgust for whores and his general dislike of the so-called fairer sex, he believed women didn't deserve such harsh treatment. Again, he wanted to speak up, but kept his emotions in check. He was slipping by degrees, and had to focus on what was really important: information. "_Of course_ he's here! You think Mr. Moriarty woulda let 'im out? He'da scaped for sure."

Rose rounded on him, scowling. "You're not supposed to hit me, Mic. One of these days, I'll tell Jim, and he'll have your head!" She ran a hand through her hair. "I wonder if the little doll could use some entertainment…"

Mic roughly grabbed Rose's arm. "You're _mine_, Rose! You hear me? Till I get tired a ya, you're _mine_ and mine only! Don't get any ideas bout playing with Mr. Moriarty's doll. It aint worth it anyhows."

Rose looked hurt. "Jim said he was gonna let his doll out to play at the party."

"Probly just to show off his dolly. Don't get too attached, Rose, I warn ya."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Mic." Rose replied affectionately. "I want to talk to the dolly alone. You're scaring him."

Mic growled. "Oh alright. Five minutes, Rose, _five_, then ya meet me and we get busy, eh?" He kissed her one last time and left, his feet heavy upon the stairs.

Once he was gone, Rose came towards the bars. "Are you in there, dolly? Don't be frightened, I won't hurt you."

Sherlock despised being talked to like a pet, but he wanted information and was going to have to deal with it. Apparently, Jim was calling him 'his doll.' Disgusting. The consulting detective flowed out of the shadows, all ten and a half stone of him a perfect lanky figure. He supposed that he looked even more imposing now that his cheeks were sunken and his eyes had bags under them from too many restless nights and poor nutrition. He glared at the prostitute with evident distaste as he walked closer to the edge of the cell. He waited until he was close enough to converse, but at a safe distance, before answering her. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he snapped bitterly, "and I am _not_ a doll."

"Aww, certainly not," Rose's thin fingers with claw-like red nails reached through the bars and brushed against Sherlock's chest. "You look more like a zombie or vampire. Poor thing. He isn't feeding you, is he?" Sherlock didn't answer that, and let Rose's fingers close against his lapels, bringing him closer to the edge of the cell. "Poor, poor baby doll. You don't look well."

"You were talking about the party," Sherlock softened his voice, gently prying the girl's fingers from his jacket, feeling her jump at his cold, bony grip. He hoped that kindness would be met with kindness and, eventually, information. Sherlock was capable of being patient, and he was glad to employ his skills to pump this girl for information. "Are you going to come?"

Rose blushed, and Sherlock sensed an opening. "Well, I wasn't going to. I worry about treading water in Jim's business."

"Please come," Sherlock pulled out a high, desperate tick in his voice. More than capable of acting the victim, he hoped that he'd detected right and the girl was drawn to weaker men. "I don't know anyone in Moriarty's network and I'm tired. It would be nice to see at least one familiar face."

Rose smiled sweetly and Sherlock had to suppress a grin. She'd walked right into his trap. _Said the spider to the fly..._ "I—I don't know if I can do anything for you, doll," she reached up to touch his face and he let her, even closing his eyes for a moment against her warmth. He parted his lips _just so_ when her fingers fell down his cheek and brushed against his neck and when he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of dilated pupils. Great. Sherlock would play the victim forever to be able to use this girl all he wanted. "But if you really want me there, I will come."

"Please," Sherlock ventured to touch her back, his cold hand resting fleetingly on her cheek. She sighed longingly and this time, Sherlock couldn't suppress a grin of superiority. He'd won. He had her exactly where he wanted her. _Oh, the spider would have a feast tonight!_ "I'd be happy if I saw you, even if you couldn't help me. But maybe you can tell me—you said Ji—Moriarty—was going to let me out. To what end?" He was careful to keep his voice innocent, throwing in a touch of sadness and defeat, lest she be smart enough to recognize his manipulation. Women of her particular line of work can almost always sense when they are being used.

Rose giggled, obviously flattered. How many girls had been chosen by 'Moriarty's doll?' It was something to be proud of, certainly. She could brag about it among her circle for _weeks_ on end! (And yes, Sherlock read all that from a giggle). "Well, I'm sure I don't know. I'm sure Mic is right. He just wants to show you off. He's happy, you know. He's very intrigued by you."

_Ready to tear me apart, I suspect. No, it can't be __**just**__ to show me off. Moriarty's too clever for that. It has to be to make a point of some kind…_ Sherlock didn't realize he was biting his lower lip as he thought until Rose questioned it. "No, no, I'm fine," he reassured her, touching her cheek again with deliberate gentleness. "I'm not feeling too well, as you can imagine."

Rose clicked her tongue. "Poor, poor baby doll."

"Perhaps you can tell me," Sherlock leaned closer against the bars, in order to get closer to Rose, "what kind of criminals will be in attendance?"

"Jim invited all of the leaders of his network in London. Seb will probably be in attendance."

"Seb?"

"Sebastian Moran. Jim's right-hand man and the closest he's got to a best friend."

"Ah." Sherlock absorbed the information like a sponge. "One more question, dear, and then I'll let you go. I wouldn't want that pretty face of yours to be hurt by that _ghastly_ man." Sentiment. The words choked him like a thick glob of honey had worked its way into his windpipe, but it was worth it to see Rose's face light up. Sherlock did feel a little better at her expression, because he really did believe that she deserved better than to be hit. After all, Sherlock was cold and oblivious…but he was not entirely incapable of caring and sympathy. "Are there more like you? Not that I'm interested," he added at her frown, "I'm simply curious."

Rose smiled, taking his hand a moment. "Yeah there are. Most of the bosses and some of the thugs employ Jim's girls. He calls us his 'Black Widows'."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Black Widows, huh? Interesting. "Thank you, Rose. You've been most helpful." He realized too late that his voice was thick velvet; a tone that sounded like the venomous Moriarty. But Rose didn't seem to catch it.

"You're welcome, doll." Rose blew him a kiss. "See you." And she walked up the stairs again.

Sherlock waited until she'd gone and then leaped into the air in triumph. He still didn't know much about this party of criminals, but with a friend on the inside, he had the upper hand already.

Exhausted from his performance, Sherlock laid his great coat on the cold ground and lay stretched out, staring at the ceiling. It didn't take long, however, for fatigue to drag him into the darkness of sleep.


	5. Weather the Storm

_**Chapter 5: Weather the Storm**_

Fourteen days.

Fourteen long days without food. Oh, sure, the tally marks said thirteen. But then of course, Sherlock was an idiot, apparently, because he knew it had been fourteen days since he'd eaten. The tally marks said thirteen. Now, why was that?

It was how many days he'd been in captivity! Stupid, stupid! Sherlock pulled at his hair angrily and threw his discarded jacket across the room. He was slipping. He hated it when his brain was slow!

Sherlock knew he was irritable. He also knew that he was extremely tired, weak, and hungry. He hadn't even had the strength to move from his languid position on the floor since this morning, when he'd marked another tally. He'd been dizzy from the effort and had wound up on the floor, watching shadows play across the ceiling. His stomach had long since lost the ability to growl (since the stomach's growling is actually digestion of remaining food, and it takes eight days for reserve stores to be used up, Sherlock had nothing in his stomach to make it growl), but he found it still ached with emptiness, and chose to remind him with weak knees and trembling arms.

Sherlock unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt and then let his hands fall to rest by his side. He felt restless and exhausted all at once, and it annoyed him that his body seemed at war with itself. After all, the body was nothing but transport! He'd long ago discovered how to deal with it. He'd trimmed it down to a lithe, roughly 11 stone frame that was light enough to traipse through London and dash about catching criminals. He was an accomplished boxer, too, despite his weight, and could easily defeat people outside his own weight class. Of course, many a doctor had told him he was underweight, but he'd always brushed it off. He was only a stone from what was considered healthy. That gave him room to breathe if he wanted to treat himself (which, with Mrs. Hudson just downstairs, seemed to happen quite a bit). No, Sherlock didn't give a damn about his body. As long as his brain was in top form, that's all that mattered.

Of course, right now he could barely move. For six days, he'd been in a weakened state, always hiding in the shadows when Moriarty's men drifted in and out of the basement. Moriarty hadn't been down to dine in a while, which made Sherlock worry for London's safety. He needed to know what the consulting criminal was up to, even if that meant being tormented by food.

Thankfully, he got what he was wishing for.

Although Sherlock had been drifting in and out of consciousness, he guessed it was around teatime when he heard footsteps descending the stairs, humming coming with it. Sherlock immediately recognized Moriarty's voice and the smell of roast lamb. He sat up from his position on the floor and stood up. He was wobbly on his feet and could barely walk the few steps to the wall, which he used as a guide to walk to the front of the cell. Everything went black for a few seconds and Sherlock panicked before he realized he'd blacked out. He closed his eyes, bowing his head, and waited a bit. Upon testing his eyes again, he discovered he could see and gripped the bars at the front of the cell to pull himself into an upright standing position. Through blurred vision, he could see that Moriarty was watching him.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty purred, setting his dinner down on the table—an entire roast lamb! Oh! Sherlock's mouth began to water uncontrollably—and prancing over to the bars. "I haven't seen you in _ages_!" He smiled in that weird, serpentine way. "I didn't forget about you, don't worry. But I was just _so_ preoccupied planning this party! It takes a lot to be a good host, but you wouldn't know that, would you, dear?" He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. Sherlock watched him, his eyes hazy from starvation, hands gripping the bars firmly for support, his entire body trembling as if he was experiencing an earthquake. "I've barely had time to _eat_!" Moriarty exclaimed, pouting as he pressed a hand to his stomach dramatically. Sherlock heard the criminal's stomach give a faint grumble and bared his teeth, an animalistic sound passing his lips.

Moriarty laughed. "Well, well! Testy, are we? You simply _must_ mind your manners, Sherlock, or mummy will take away your dessert!" He sat down before his roast lamb and cut into it with deliberate slowness, taking small bites, chewing and swallowing meditatively before beginning the ritual again. "I hope you don't mind if I eat, Sherlock," Moriarty went on between bites. "I simply _haven't_ had time for a decent dinner of late and I'm _starving_!" And he made a somewhat orgasmic sound of pleasure as he bit into the tender meat.

Sherlock almost lost it at Moriarty's casual use of the word 'starving.' He wanted to tackle Moriarty to the ground, pin him by the shoulders, maybe dislocate one for good measure, press all his weight against the man, use him as a chair, and devour the meat. Sherlock pressed his forehead against one of the bars and closed his eyes as he imagined what the meat might taste like. Lamb meat was soft and tender and juicy. Gravy all over it would increase the flavor. Sherlock imagined it might be good alongside some delicious cooked pumpkin or sweet potatoes. He moaned, his empty stomach paining him so completely that he could barely breathe. He was finally forced to wrap his arms around his stomach, groaning, and fell to the floor painfully, almost hitting his head against the toilet.

Moriarty had jumped, startled at the noise his prisoner was making, but for his part, he recovered quickly, growling in disgust at the state his nemesis was in, all curled up on the floor, whimpering like a little baby. This wouldn't do! And the guests were due in two hours! Moriarty shrieked: "Get up! _Get up at once_, you bloody doll!" And he kicked him through the bars. "Get up! You're such a bloody _drama queen_, Sherlock!" When the kicking didn't seem to work, Moriarty turned to words instead. "My guests will arrive in two hours. I suggest you get some rest," Moriarty cackled, secretly delighted at the state of his worst enemy. "You'll need it to mingle with _my_ friends!" And he went traipsing up the stairs, leaving the roast lamb within reach of his prisoner.

Sherlock groaned and sat up, the world spinning around him. Fourteen days was the limit for most human beings before the worst effects of starvation and eventually death set in, but Sherlock figured he had another few days. He was no normal human being, after all. His stomach hurt badly, the pain constantly shooting up his spine each time he moved. What was Moriarty planning?

Sherlock stood, raising himself to his feet in slow degrees. He sort of shuffled over to his coat and collapsed again, relishing in the smell of the wool. He rolled over onto his back and decided to assess the damage his imprisonment had done. It would at least allow him a moment's peace from the pains in his stomach.

He raised his dominant hand up and closed his eyes peacefully, almost at rest. He was ready to engage his brain at full capacity. He lightly touched his curls with his fingertips. His hair was starting to get greasy because he hadn't the chance to wash it in a while, and the curls were sticking together. He touched his forehead. Nothing much to say about this area, except that on occasion, he was sensitive to light. Sherlock touched his eyes and nose. He could smell the roast lamb, but kept his mind off his hunger for now. He knew his eyes had bags under them; he would've sworn on his mummy's grave that he could _feel _them, all purple and bruise-like under his eyes. He moved past his lips, trembling and moist, and traveled carefully down his neck, down to his chest.

His heart beat steadily, calm and quiet, if not maybe a little panicked. Why had he lost so much control? Was hunger really driving him to the insanity so many claimed he already had? He passed his chest and gasped when he touched his ribcage. Ouch. Breathing like that pained him, if only slightly. Hmn. Interesting. Sherlock traced the lines of his ribs with his fingers, closing his eyes and moaning softly. He could almost imagine the concerned look on John's face, which would be present when they found him. How it would destroy John to see Sherlock thin and weak and vulnerable. And _hungry_ because yes, well, we can't leave that out, can we?

"John," Sherlock murmured, the name of his friend soft on his lips. And then, it became a mantra. "John." Sherlock sat up. He had to survive. "John." He stood, ignoring the pain in his legs and chest and stomach telling him he shouldn't do that. "John." He made a conscious effort to fix his appearance, clean his face, bring it slowly back from his suffering to the familiar mask of the consulting detective of 221B Baker Street. "John." Because John was waiting for him. And there was no way John needed to see him like this.

Sherlock stretched lazily, fixed his clothes, and stood elegantly before the thirteen tally marks on the wall, waiting eagerly for the coming storm.

_Long time coming, wasn't it? My mind kept switching between fluff and angst, so that's where I was…My mind palace. Oh yes._

_Do enjoy. There should be more well on the way!_


	6. Burn it to the Ground

_**Chapter 6: Burn it to the Ground**_

The party was just beginning.

Sherlock was alerted from his half-awake state to the noises of human beings. He could pick out very few individual voices because of the noise, but none he recognized, though he knew there were enough to stuff the tiny basement to the brim.

_Stuff. Oh God. How I'd __**love**__ to—!_

"Right this way, my beauties! That's right! Watch your step, my dear!" Lots of giggling, from one voice he could pick out miles underwater.

Moriarty.

_Focus, Sherlock._ And he did. The man straightened, strode to the center of the cell, hands behind his back, waiting. He wished the suit jacket fit him snugly again. He hated being weighed down by clothes. The looseness of the shirt was bad enough.

Moriarty, dressed more casually in a black tee shirt and dark blue jeans, hair combed and styled to perfection, a red and blue striped tie loose around his neck, led the procession. The men in attendance were all burly thugs, some of heavier build and others of leaner build. One looked very much like Moriarty's body type, if a few inches taller. He looked like a rock singer, Sherlock thought. He was thin and only lightly muscled, wearing some band's logo with a suit jacket overtop, black jeans and long blonde hair tied in a ponytail completing the look. By the way he clung to Moriarty, this must be Sebastian Moran. Sherlock also noticed that a group of "Black Widows" followed behind the men, giggling amongst themselves like women did. They were all dressed in black dresses of different styles, all wearing bright red lipstick and false lashes. Sherlock picked out Rose in the crowd of ladies, chatting with two blondes. He peered among the men and spotted Mic, dressed no differently than before.

Moriarty plugged an iPod into a small stereo system and the small basement flooded with music. "Enjoy yourselves!" Moriarty shouted over the music. "I'm going to let out my dolly!" He lifted a set of jailer's keys and jingled them, earning him a roar of laughter and applause from the thugs and soft clapping from the Widows. Sherlock only retreated further into his cell, preferring the coming darkness to any party of criminals thrown by Moriarty. Sherlock eyed Moran setting up a crude bar in the back of the basement towards the stereo.

Moriarty put the key into the lock and fidgeted with it a moment. "Dolly," he purred, lifting his dangerous dark eyes, his voice projected over the music. "Come."

Sherlock stood his ground, glaring daggers at Moriarty. It was one thing to be caged like an animal and starved like a war prisoner, but it was quite another to be _called_ like a common housecat! Sherlock straightened his body out completely, making it a singular line, standing at his full height, using it to his advantage against the consulting criminal.

Moriarty pouted. "Aw, Dolly doesn't wanna come play?" He cooed, the tone very much like a pet owner to the domesticated animal. What was it called? "Baby talk," yes. Sherlock only scowled.

Jim Moriarty's lips parted, revealing a sadistic, demonic smile. "Oh, Seb?" He called lightly and with great affection. This puzzled Sherlock's overactive mind for a second: were they lovers?

Moran ghosted to stand beside Moriarty, his face blank, solemn, and silent. "Yes, Jim?"

Sherlock raised a very curious eyebrow. _Oh_. How many of Moriarty's subordinates got the pleasure of calling him by his first name? That meant little, of course, but one could always wonder.

"Turn down the music a little." Moriarty unlocked the cell with a flick of his wrist and pushed aside the cell door with the ease of a well-seasoned actor pushing aside the red curtain to take the stage. "I want to have a chat with my dolly."

"Yes, sir." Moran melted without expression into the crowd. A moment later, the music became nothing more than a dull background noise, about as loud as the muted sounds of the London nightlife outside.

Moriarty, however, was advancing towards Sherlock. The consulting detective forced himself to stand his ground, though he didn't like where this was going in the least. He liked being in control. He _hated_ when people invaded his personal space. The party guests had stopped conversing amongst themselves and were all watching him.

"Well?" Moriarty began, his voice almost hysterical in its glee. "What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to—?" And he tilted his head slightly, stopping his sashaying about a foot from Sherlock.

"Aren't I going to _what_?" Sherlock snapped bitterly, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket casually.

"Try to run away, of course!" Moriarty cried, laughing as if someone had just told him a marvelous joke. "I won't try to stop you, you know. I won't follow you. You can run all the way back home, crying to your little pet," He smirked when Sherlock grit his teeth. "I won't bother you. I've got guests to entertain!" He spun around once, smiling like a dancer in the spotlight, arms outstretched, indicating his posse, which cheered at being recognized before falling back into silence. "You'll be free, Sherlock. My pretty, pretty doll," Moriarty dared to reach a hand out to touch Sherlock's cheek, but the taller man dodged the touch like a bullet. "_If_ you can, that is." Moriarty cackled, stepped aside.

Sherlock stood puzzled. It had to be a trap. There had to be some catch, some show Moriarty was waiting for. Was it Sherlock's utter humiliation and being unable to move? Or something completely different?

What Sherlock liked—admired, in fact—about the consulting criminal was that he had the ability to surprise him. Sherlock had high respect for anyone who could knock him off his high horse and send him spiraling down into confusion. Of course, right now, that wasn't such a good thing.

Completely at the mercy of the consulting criminal, to the tune of what he thought might've been "tonight I'm loving you," Sherlock walked calmly out of his cell. As he crossed the threshold between his cell and the rest of the basement, though, the thugs flooded his personal space. Sherlock had been expecting the trap, so he remained calm, removed his jacket, tossed it behind him into the cell.

"I'd like you to meet the Meatheads!" Moriarty sang, dancing over to a towering man—bigger, more muscular, and about six inches taller than Sherlock—and patting his powerful arms. "I love my Meatheads!" Moriarty giggled, passing closer to Sherlock. "They'll outsmart you, Sherlock." Sherlock was getting sick of the criminal saying his name. It was like Moriarty tainted it somehow each time it passed his lips. "Just you wait. Oh, my doll" he poked at Sherlock's chest repeatedly, "you're a _wee_ bit tired and a _wee_ bit hungry, and honey, you're getting _slow_. Anyone with a primary school degree could get the best of you!"

Sherlock growled and took a swing at Moriarty. Instead, somehow, he connected with a thug's shoulder. The short, heavier man grinned lopsidedly and dealt him a severe blow to the stomach. Sherlock reeled, coughing weakly, his breathing harsh and ragged. Ow. Owowow _fuck_ why did it hurt so much? Sherlock raised himself from his curled position, only to see another punch flying at him. Sherlock dodged this one, though, dancing away from it. But he couldn't see everywhere at once, and a kick connected with the back of his knees, buckling them and sending him flying forward. Another punch to the chin knocked him back like a punching bag. Sherlock ducked a high kick and threw a right jab at the face of one of the thugs. Another lunged at him, but Sherlock dodged, only to be kicked hard in the back. Sherlock groaned, but elbowed the man standing behind him, karate-chopping another in the neck.

All the while, the other thugs jeered and shouted encouragement and praise, urging their buddies on. The women could not be heard, but Moriarty was laughing loudly.

"Give 'im your left jab, Frank!"

"Atta boy, Smithers!"

"Make 'im _bleed_!"

"I got 'im!"

Sherlock tensed, realizing he was being held by the tall thug. He was strong, and Sherlock was too weak to get free. His arms were pulled painfully behind him, resting under the other man's arms, his legs flailing wildly, looking for purchase.

"Let me go, you uneducated piece of shit!" Sherlock shouted, turning his head to the side and biting down hard on the wrist that held him fast. It took a few minutes and all of Sherlock's jaw strength, but the man finally let him free, shaking his injured hand. Sherlock had no time to feel victorious, however, for another man tackled him to the ground, pinning him by the shoulders, throwing punches. Sherlock dodged some, but other connected. His head was beginning to spin from the confusion and his weak, malnourished, possibly sick body was not going to be able to take much more of this. He kicked the other man off him and was pulled to his feet by none other than a laughing Moriarty.

The consulting criminal pulled his arm back and punched Sherlock in the face. Sherlock reeled, his nose bleeding from the punch. He tried to punch Moriarty again, but something hit him like a truck and smashed him into the wall. Sherlock counted three thugs, including Mic, who were punching, kicking, screaming, spitting at anything they could reach while a forth held him against the wall.

By now, Sherlock was far too weak to fight. His body was limp and felt a lot like melted ice. It was all Sherlock could do to tilt his head from time to time to keep from getting a concussion from the repeated punishment. He had never been so tired or so completely exhausted in all his life. He could barely breathe from all the pain coursing through his body and his insides ached, his muscles screaming at him, his stomach nearly vibrating in his chest as it tried, in vain, to provide nutrients—energy—to his body so he could continue to fight like his brain was telling him to.

"That's enough." Moriarty commanded.

Sherlock was let free. The consulting detective fell to the cold, stone floor with a thud and a tired moan. He tried to make himself get up, to fight some more, but the soft pressure of a foot kept him lying there, facedown and beaten, on the ground. The foot was not exerting a lot of force, but Sherlock couldn't fight it. He had to come to terms with himself: he was just too feeble.

"Did you have fun, dolly?" Moriarty's face was in Sherlock's in half a second, grinning. In response, Sherlock spit in his face. Moriarty cried out in surprise and drew away. The foot on his back exerted more force now, enough to crack a rib or two, the ailing bones much too fragile, and Sherlock found himself sobbing from the pain.

Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk! Naughty little dolly. I was going to let you rest before Round Two, but…" He chuckled, bending down by Sherlock's ear, his breath hot on the sensitive organ. "You're just not _tender_ enough for my taste."


	7. Age Cannot Wither

_**Chapter 7: Age Cannot Wither**_

John Watson couldn't remember a time before now when he was this stressed out.

He was worried for his best friend, flatmate, and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, who he'd seen captured thirteen days ago. Thirteen. An unlucky number. John didn't think he could make it through another hour, never mind a day, a week, without knowing what was happening to Sherlock, if he was okay. Because the last thing the consulting criminal would do was sit down and have tea with Sherlock!

_Breathe, John. Breathe_.

John cared. That's what he did. He cared when no one else did. He cared for Harry when his parents gave up on her. He cared for wounded soldiers in wartime. He cared for himself for a little while. Then, he cared for Sherlock. Sherlock needed care, no matter how much he shook it off or protested against it. He was always getting into trouble in one way or another.

If John had knew that Sherlock would be captured at the end of that day thirteen days ago, he would've forced Sherlock to stay inside the flat. It would've been impossible, John knew. Serial murders were something that Sherlock enjoyed immensely. His massive intellect could fold around the facts, solving each one with relative ease, maybe even finding a connection between them. He was amazing to watch when he was in his "zone," and John didn't hold a grudge at being dragged along, no, not at all.

John thought and decided that, if he had known Sherlock would be captured by Moriarty and imprisoned for thirteen days, he would've insisted Sherlock finish the _entire plate_ of four slices of toast. As it was, three and a half slices were left over when Sherlock dragged him out the door. Sherlock had barely even swallowed the last bit before hailing a cab and jumping right into the case. John felt like a horrible doctor, and an even more horrible friend, for not making Sherlock eat more, or just take care of himself more in general.

But Sherlock was stubborn. There was little that could be done about that.

John remembered where Sherlock had tracked the murderer to; some outdoor pool closed for the season, abandoned, or something like that. The plants were poorly tended, there were some assorted dead animals floating in the water, more bugs than John dared count, more health code violations than he wanted to think about. He was too busy following the great coat, anyway, eyes always on his friend, watching him carefully.

Sherlock had stopped, so suddenly that John nearly bumped into him, and stared. There was Moriarty, smiling fiendishly like some devil out from the deepest pit of hell. John clenched his revolver in his pocket, but Sherlock held his hand out, a motion that communicated quite clearly: _don't_. It was these kinds of commands from Sherlock that made John feel he'd gained telepathy: he could hear Sherlock's voice clearly in his head. _Don't, John._ So John didn't. Against his better judgment, but still.

Moriarty cackled. "So! So, so, so, Sherlock," he advanced, a spring in his step, "you finally solved my little puzzle. Was it amusing? Did you have fun dancing for me?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Give it up, Moriarty. There are thousands of Yardies waiting outside, waiting for my signal."

What was the signal? Sherlock was bluffing, and John knew it, but the voice was calm and cool and confident, like always. John could feel Sherlock's emotions vibrating out from his body like an aura. He wasn't afraid.

Moriarty chuckled and dusted his suit with his hands. "Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Sherlock narrowed his eyes even further, if that was possible, his expression souring like he'd just sucked on a lemon for an hour. "You're lying. You'll come with me, Sherlock. _Oh yes_, you will." He purred, looking at his nails. "If you don't, I'll do something very nasty."

A hard, deep, baritone laugh echoed throughout the closed pool. "What? _Kill _me?"

"Oh, _no_, no, _never_. Not yet." Moriarty seemed to be thinking, his hands clasped in front of him. Then, he thrust them into the pocket of his pants. "Because I _am_ going to kill you. But not yet. No. I'm going to make you _suffer_ first. Won't that be _fun_?" And he giggled, reminding John of a small child talking about plans for a play-date.

Sherlock wet his lips. "Just you _try_."

"Oh, I will!" Moriarty giggled. "And it will be the _best_ time of my _life_! Now, come, Sherlock!" And he whistled, beckoning with his finger, as if calling a dog.

Sherlock refused and stood where he was, straight and tall and powerful and imposing.

Moriarty frowned, lifted his hand, and snapped it.

Snipers. John saw the lights on Sherlock, Sherlock saw the lights on John. Those little, deadly red dots that would spell sudden death for the two of them. Neither man panicked, but John caught a hint of worry in Sherlock's ice blue eyes as he turned back around to face Moriarty again. "This is between _you_ and _me_," he hissed. "Leave John out of this!"

Moriarty smiled. "Your choice, Sherlock. Obey me…or your sweet little pet _dies_."

Sherlock didn't even hesitate before raising his hands above his head. "I surrender."

John couldn't stop himself from crying out: "_No_, Sherlock—!" But Sherlock turned, his eyes calm, his lips pressed in a firm line. John once again heard the voice of his best friend loud and clear in his head. Did the man really have some sort of telepathy and neglected to tell John about it?

_John, it's okay. Your life is important. Stay calm. Don't worry. I'll be just fine._

John blinked, swallowed, nodded. Sherlock smiled, inclined his head, and willingly complied, allowing Moriarty to hold his hands behind him. John thought he'd never seen Sherlock so elegant and at peace as he'd been then, his back straight, proud head complete with dark curls held high. John waited until his friend was out of sight and then turned and called Greg Lestrade on his mobile, to report what had happened.

Now, in the present, John was pacing up and down, waiting for a call from Lestrade, from Sherlock, from anyone. He needed clues, needed to know his friend was safe. The police had picked up some clues as to Moriarty's possible hide-away.

_We're so close_, John thought. _Hold on, Sherlock. Just hold on._

Just then, John's mobile buzzed in his hand and he picked it up.

"Hello? Greg?"


	8. As Cold as Stone

_**Chapter 8: As Cold as Stone**_

Moriarty cackled and looked gleefully upon his prisoner. He cracked his neck and beckoned his meatheads forward. "Bind him, gentlemen, but don't be gentle!" He giggled. Sherlock's eyes, the color of the frozen north of the planet, were colder still than that, narrow beneath the dark, beautiful lashes. Moriarty watched two of his boys lift him, then reached a hand out to smooth it through the dark curly hair he so envied. "Aww," he purred, lightly ghosting his lips against Sherlock's cheek, his forehead, his ear. Sherlock tried to bite, to tear flesh away like a starving animal, but at a signal, one of the meatheads punched him in the stomach.

Sherlock strained in the grasp of the other men, his neck thrust back, eyes tightly shut against the immense pain. From his lips came the most strangled, feral, _human_ cry Moriarty had ever heard from the consulting detective. The criminal grinned.

"You're weak, Sherlock," he went on, looking at his nails. Seb ghosted to stand behind him, a beautiful, deadly cobra: Moriarty's own sweet pet. "You can't stand any more pain, can you?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth gaping like a fish's. Still, he spoke in a small but still so powerful voice: "I can stand…anything you…can throw at me." He coughed. The action wracked his body and he writhed from the pain in his broken ribs.

Moriarty grinned his favorite, most malicious grin. He was sadistic, although Sherlock probably already knew that. The criminal snapped his fingers twice.

Long, iron chains were brought forward reverently, as if they were holy relics. Two of the meatheads pinned Sherlock to the wall without much effort—Moriarty had been right; Sherlock was really too weak to fight—and the chains were held up to his nose for his viewing pleasure. Seb held the back end of the chains, giving Moriarty the front. Moriarty danced forward.

"Do you know what these are, Sherlock?"

Sherlock coughed, groaned, and winced in that order. "Chains…" he breathed, "metal…alloy…"

"Wrong, but oh so right, Shirley," purred Moriarty, kissing the chains as he lovingly closed the cuffs around Sherlock's ankles and wrists, caressing each before he locked it into place. "Tungsten carbide. It's military-grade—the _hardest metal in the world_!" The criminal screeched, and the men around him laughed, raising their glasses, spilling beer and hard liquor over the ground and other patrons. One of the meatheads made Sherlock drink a little convulsively, but Moriarty angrily pulled with away, hitting him.

"No, no, no _**NO**_! He's got no tolerance! He'll _throw up_!" Moriarty bared his teeth, hissing. "Seb!"

Sebastian Moran appeared at his elbow, like the most perfect little lapdog in all the world. "Yes, sir?"

Moriarty smiled, giving Seb's ponytail an affectionate tug. "Go _take care_ of Flanders, will you?" He inclined his head towards the meathead who had given Sherlock the beer, who was now looking sorrowful and sullen.

"Of course, Jim," Seb smiled, which was a rare sight, and pulled a pistol from his belt. The room seemed to go quiet, only the music playing in the background, as Moran shot Flanders twice in the eyes.

The man Flanders screamed, and Moriarty noted Sherlock's eyes glued to the scene, a man possessed, entranced—if unwillingly. He looked sick. As Moran finished the job, Moriarty went to soothe his doll.

"There, there, dolly," Moriarty petted Sherlock's head, all the way to his neck. "I'm sorry he hurt you. But look what I've done! My hands didn't even get dirty!" And he pulled Sherlock's head to his breast and laughed.

Over the ruckus that resumed after the shock of Flanders' death, the consulting criminal barely heard the wounded angel: "You…monster…" he wheezed.

"I know! Isn't it _wonderful_?" The consulting criminal praised.

"Certainly not." Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his forehead to Moriarty's. "You're a hated creature. Everyone…" he gasped, his ribs preventing proper breathing, "…they hate you, they _fear_ you. How…is that any good?"

"It's _not_ good," Moriarty kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Dolly, it's _not good_!" He reached his hand back, stepping back as if doing a Latin dance step. Moran placed a riding crop in his hand and he looked at his prize.

There was Sherlock, in an 'x' shape, chained to the wall, that delicious look of hatred and a new look of surprisingly immense pain coloring that dirty, thin face. Moriarty cracked the whip at Sherlock's chest. The consulting detective arched his back and cried out in pain. Moriarty cried out in much the same way, only gleefully and with an insane malice. He struck again, the same ritual repeated. And again. And again. And again.

Moriarty could see that pain blinded Sherlock. The great detective was as weak as a baby, putty in his hands. "Let's let _everyone_ have a go!" He roared, raising his arms up and turning to his patrons. The men and women cheered. "Let my deadly Black Widows come forth! I know some of you can do greater harm to a man than any of us!"

Some of the men cheered as the Black Widows advanced. Moriarty looked deliciously from end to end; his beautiful little clutch of ten deadly, beautiful women, paid for sex and pain and all that is false and carnal about love and passion. Seven were trained assassins, two were young rebels, and one was an outcast. Moriarty narrowed his eyes at the one called Rose, who seemed shy about the prospect. This was the one that Mic had called his own.

Moriarty returned from the inner confines of his mind castle and raised his entire body up into the crowd. "Who shall strike while the iron is hot?" He yelled.

The meatheads all began shouting names of the girls, the assassins generally among the names.

"Let Acid have a go!"

"Shale! She'll _murder_ him!"

"Tequila!" Shouted Mic. This started a general consensus.

"Tequila! Tequila! Tequila!" The room chanted. A bronzed, dark-haired beauty, blushing in her dark red lipstick and sleeveless dress and eagerly stepped forward. Moriarty presented her with the whip.

Tequila drew the whip up the length of Sherlock's upper body, from the groin to the mouth. Then, she whipped him across the face. There was a satisfied, maybe sympathetic 'oooooo' from the crowd. Moriarty frowned.

"Tequila!" He snapped. The woman turned, a devilish smile on her otherwise innocent face. One would not believe how many of her husbands this innocent woman had strangled—seven; she always wore their wedding rings around her neck as a necklace to prove it. Many of the girls looked up to her; she was by far the deadliest Widow—before Moriarty had found her. Regardless of her history, or perhaps because of it, Moriarty kept this deadly dancer on a tight leash. "Not the face," his voice became softer, deadlier. Even Sherlock's eyes widened; but that could be from the drink or the pain at this point. "Not the face of my poor little dolly. He scars easily—look at that skin!"

Tequila bowed low, her head to her chest. "Apologies, master." She rose to full height. "May I continue?"

"By all means, honey," Moriarty waved his hand in a gesture of reckless abandon. Seb brought him rum and he drank it down, dancing around with those who danced, laughing with those who laughed.

One by one, the Widows had a go at him. Purr and Sparkle, the young rebels, had gone. Rose was busy with Mic. Moriarty scowled. He had a feeling she felt for his dolly. There was really no harm in the stupid feelings of a woman—sometimes, they could lead to the beautiful sight of the detective torn apart (a description we will revisit later)—but the emotional ones had to be watched. Moriarty had learned of the dangers of the loose cannons Tequila and Pug—the latter though small and heavier than his other Widows had killed for the CIA before turning traitor—and did not want another…incident.

But, he was satisfied. Moriarty pulled out his mobile and snapped pics.

Sherlock was, literally, torn apart. Blood seeped from multiple wounds in great blossoming ruby pearls, spreading eagerly around every edge of his white shirt. Tears in the fabric from where the whip had torn it showed the white skin pink with wounds and bleeding all the more. Moriarty finished his pictures and called Moran to his side.

Seb came. "Yes, sir?"

"Cut him loose," Moriarty was smiling, his fingers twitching at his mouth as if looking for something to do. "Those chains weigh twice his stone. He won't be going anywhere."

"Yes, sir."

Indeed.

For when Seb cut him loose, Sherlock sank to the floor like a ragdoll, moaning softly, his chin bobbing on his chest. Moriarty cocked his head, wondering if now would be the time to offer him something to eat, to ease the ache in his (surely) starved stomach.

But then, shivering, he erased the thought of compassion and sympathy for his doll from his mind, promising never to revisit such useless emotions. He took Seb's hand. "Shall we dance?" And was soon lost in the rhythm of the song.

_It is still not slash! I promise! I just thought the whole "kiss the doll" thing was so very much Moriarty. _

_Actually, I think he's using Seb…but I dunno. Thoughts? Feel free to take their relationship as you see fit._

_Sorry for the wait! Vacation is exhausting me. Hopefully, I'll feel better again tomorrow, enough to write some more of this beautiful tragedy.-SH_


	9. Ministering Angel

_**Chapter 9: Ministering Angel**_

Sherlock closed his eyes tight, his ears ringing.

Nope. Even behind his eyelids, he was conscious of the spinning of the earth beneath him and all around him. The loud noise of the party and the music was no help, either. His shirt was damp with sweat and sticky with blood. He couldn't even lift his arms because of the heavy chains. He moaned, feeling incredibly ill, the beer's unpleasant taste lingering on his tongue. Why did people _like_ beer, anyhow? It tasted like liquid bread.

Sherlock knew that he'd lost a lot of blood. He didn't need to live with a doctor to know this was detrimental to his (already poor) health, even though he did in fact live with a doctor. He also didn't need to live with a doctor to know that blood loss—a lot of blood loss, particularly on an empty stomach—was dangerous, and could mean an end to his life. He thought back to the noodle Moriarty had forced him to swallow, the toast left uneaten, and whined hungrily like a small child desperate for dinner. This whine very clearly begged: "feed me! I'm so hungry, I could die! _Feed me_! Feed me, _**please**_!" Sherlock knew all too well that the whine was meant to communicate these words. He thought them in his head even as the babyish sound passed his lips, and he felt tears come to his eyes.

Now, in later days when Sherlock was well again, he would look upon this moment with shame, thinking it a weakness. This self of later on would be grateful no one had seen him so pitiful—particularly not John, whose compassionate heart would have broke long ago, at the sight of his best friend's peril. At least, not—

"Sherlock,"

Sherlock lifted his weary head, more upon feeling the breath of another human being at his ear than the sound of his name. He opened his eyes, blinking away tears, to see Rose straddling his lap. Sherlock didn't have the decency or strength to feel uncomfortable about her rather sexual pose, nor did he have the desire to question it, as perhaps he should have. He only tilted his head back against the stone wall, swallowing thickly, his throat dry from dehydration. "Rose," he whispered at last, his eyes closing from fatigue.

Rose stroked his cheek. "Yes. I'm here. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. He's destroyed you. They all have." All these words were said against his ear, soft when the music was too loud. Sherlock made himself focus on her words, and this helped to ease his suffering—at least inside the deep depths of his mind palace.

When she began to cry, Sherlock lifted a trembling hand and placed it on her shoulder. Perhaps, a part of his overactive mind thought, he was beginning to feel pity or friendship towards her. More likely, he thought another second later, it may have been that dreaded heroism many claimed he had. Sherlock did not think of himself as a hero, did not appreciate others (John) thinking so, either. Heroes were not detached from emotion. They felt compassion, empathy, and were sympathetic to the human condition.

Sherlock did not like to admit that he was capable of feeling, never mind such dreadfully _heroic_ emotions. But back to a scene in progress.

"Don't cry," his hoarse voice was of little comfort, but he was able to turn his head towards her ear so she could hear him over the noise. He observed, perhaps idly or lazily, that most if not all the patrons—Moriarty himself included—were sloshed and would not remember anything. Good. He could use his power over the girl to get the information he required. "Don't cry, please. I can't…deal with tears." The pain in his broken ribs still sometimes gave him trouble with breathing, but at least he could talk without gasping for breath every third word or so.

Rose chuckled and lifted her head from where she'd laid it on his shoulder. She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled slightly at him. Leaning forward, she spoke: "I wish I could help."

"You…can," Sherlock breathed. "Tell me: am I still bleeding badly?"

Rose looked him over—no doctor, but she'd have to do—and shook her head. "Some cuts on your chest are, but not too badly."

Sherlock blinked slowly and sighed shakily in relief. "Good. See? You…you're helping." He coughed, wincing at the pain shooting through his chest.

"I don't like the look of this party," Rose whispered. "They're all sloshed. Somebody will do something stupid, get themselves killed."

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes again. "Good. The less…I have to deal with, the…better."

Rose ran a hand through his curls. "I really like you, Sherlock. I don't want you to die."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Where's Mic?"

Rose seemed hurt. "Giggling like a maniac with Smithers."

"You'd…better go back," Sherlock shifted, trying to get comfortable. "I need…rest. Can't…think, can't do much of anything."

Rose sighed. "Okay."

"You'll be safer…" Sherlock managed to choke out before the blackness took him under.

He could never be quite sure if Rose had heard him or not.

_Short chapter! Don't hate me! I promise more is coming! You people…-SH_


	10. A Foregone Conclusion

_**Chapter 10: A Foregone Conclusion**_

Sherlock woke up in a haze of being. He felt weak and sick and tired.

He realized that he was back in his cell, the party was over, and there was a commotion upstairs. It was a fairly loud commotion, too, because Sherlock hadn't before heard anything from the room or rooms upstairs. It was Moriarty and Moran. They seemed to be…fighting, almost.

"How _could_ they know?" Moriarty snapped. Sherlock heard the man's dress shoes on the wooden floor upstairs. "Little sniffer dogs in blue'll ruin _all_ my hard work, Seb! He's there! Broken! I've got him where I want him!"

"You'll get him again, sir," Moran reassured him with a calm, soothing voice. "You always get what you want."

"Shut up," Moriarty growled. "Let's just get out of here!"

There was the sound of a door slamming and then silence. Sherlock sat still on his bed, listening.

Maybe an hour passed—he wasn't sure—before there was the sound of several people breaking down a door. And his heart leapt for joy in his chest upon hearing familiar voices.

"This is the place!" Lestrade.

"Bloody hell." Anderson. _Why_ did it have to be _him_ of all people? He wasn't even a _bobby_!

"Right. So where's the freak?" Donovan. Sherlock had never been so happy to be called "freak."

"We need to find him. He might be hurt." John.

"John," Sherlock's voice began huskily, full of emotion. John: his best friend in the whole world! A doctor, and a very good one, too! Sherlock needed medical care, although his wounds seemed miles away. He called out again, his voice louder, stronger. "John! In here, John!"

"I hear him!" John called to the Yardies. "Don't worry, Sherlock! I'm coming!"

"John!" Sherlock cried. He could imagine the doctor nursing him back to health with his favorite dishes. Pasta, soup, roast lamb…mmm! Sherlock's stomach did a flip inside him, much too empty to growl or grumble. Somehow, the _feeling_ of hunger was worse than the actual _noise_ of it. Sherlock felt ill, like he might throw up, he was so famished!

And then, just as he was about to see John's face…

He woke up.

And Sherlock Holmes, a man of infinite strength, power, and sheer force of will, almost burst into tears upon realizing that his rescue…had all been a dream.

Overcoming the sorrow upon waking up from the best dream he'd had in all his life to date (that he could recall, anyway) and shaking off as much of the sleepiness as he could under the circumstances, Sherlock surveyed his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was that he was sitting in a comfortable chair. It almost resembled a throne—red velvet plush seat cushion and back cushion, stiff posture which encouraged one to sit up straight rather than slouch to be comfortable, ornate gold inlays in the legs and arms and probably the head, too. Sherlock tried to raise his arms, but realized the heavy chains still weighed him down. Moriarty had to have been right about their weight, then. Sherlock guessed (an educated one, but a shot in the dark, really) that together, all the chains weighed about seven stone.

Now, Sherlock estimated himself to be about eleven stone when healthy, though probably a little less than that. Considering how long he'd been starving for (the last count was fourteen days, one will recall), he estimated his current weight to be more along the lines of about nine stone. Sherlock's head reeled as he did the math. He was now three stone from a recommended weight for someone of his height. He dreaded the amount of food needed to return such nutrients to his body, and grew sick at the thought. He didn't have much time to ponder, because Moriarty appeared.

He was dressed again in a Westwood suit, but looked disheveled and hung-over, dark bags underneath his eyes. But Sherlock didn't care about his sickly nemesis, no. What had drawn his attention like a moth to the flame was the smell of food.

Sherlock groaned, because he knew the scent right away. Crêpes. He smelled honey and maple syrup and deduced that the delicious French pancakes were filled with fresh honey and topped with maple syrup. Of course, he then smelled the fresh strawberries and cursed Moriarty, cursed him with every terrible oath he'd been taught as a child to _never_ say or think, and his mouth began to water.

Moriarty sat in a chair across from Sherlock and held the platter in his lap. The criminal yawned and settled into his chair until he was more comfortable. Sherlock bit his tongue _firmly_, glaring at the consulting criminal with as much malice as he could possibly force out of his feeble body.

"Did you enjoy the party, Sherlock?" Moriarty began conversationally, scratching his belly lazily. "I know _I_ did. But _God_!" He squinted, massaging his temple with his free hand. "I _do_ wish hang-overs would just _stuff it_, don't you?"

_Stuff_. Sherlock knew the meaning of the word in context. Yes, of course he did. But his empty stomach was telling him that 'stuff' meant 'to fill.' And _God almighty_ did he want to be _stuffed_! He bit his lip and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

Moriarty grinned, then laughed. This startled Sherlock, and the consulting detective returned to being rigid and hateful of his worst enemy in half a second. Moriarty raised an eyebrow, surprised himself that Sherlock could move so fast. He'd forgotten that the thin man was more than capable of besting him physically. Even now, when the man's torn shirt was stained with his own blood, dark bags under his eyes, ribs standing stark against his skin, pants exposing not even underwear but bony hips, cheekbones severe in the elegant face, Sherlock smacked of power, of control, of a deep, inner strength unaffected by his state of extreme starvation.

But wills could be broken. Moriarty had turned many a good man to crime, and he would turn many more before the end of his life, so he wasn't stirred by the (what he thought was) false bravado from his enemy. "You're hungry, aren't you, Sherlock?" There was a moment of silence. Sherlock sat back in his chair, his eyebrow raising, obviously curious. "Come on," Moriarty leaned forward slightly, as much as he possibly could with the crêpes on his lap, "you can tell old Jim," he grinned, his dark eyes betraying a strange friendliness that one would be wise not to trust.

Sherlock weighed the options in his mind, but before he could properly think or control his actions, he spit out in a voice much weaker in reality than it sounded in his head: "I am. A little." He leaned forward, towards the smell of food, but woke up before he fell out of his chair and did his best to erase the entranced look from his starved-thin face.

Moriarty giggled. "Good! Because I had my _personal_ chef—" Oh! A _personal_ chef? How _could_ Moriarty afford such luxuries? "—make it _just for you_, one-hundred-percent poison-free!" The consulting criminal lifted the top off the platter with a flourish and revealed exactly what Sherlock had expected to find: crêpes oozing with honey, drenched in maple syrup, topped with fresh strawberries.

Our poor, starved, wounded, suffering consulting detective simply couldn't take it anymore. Fifteen (at least—who knows how much time had passed since the party, or how long Sherlock had been asleep, unconscious, or too tired and weak to be paying attention?) days without food, at least fourteen days in captivity—he was beyond hungry, starving, famished. He couldn't even _think_ of a strong enough word to describe the desperation coursing through his body, making him weaker with each passing second. His head, and in fact his whole body, felt light. _Too_ light. Sherlock didn't even feel grounded. He _felt_ like a helium balloon that would've floated away some time ago were it not for the chains keeping him grounded. He would've given _anything_ to feel full—! And for a moment, this clouded his judgment, hid his powerful exterior mask, and revealed to his enemy a starved, wounded, _human_ Sherlock Holmes.

Which is why Moriarty went on. "You can have this delicious dish, Sherlock. This warm, soft, filling breakfast. You can have every last bite of these light, fluffy, beautifully sweet crêpes. I won't hesitate to give them to you…" Sherlock's subconscious wasn't waiting for the coming condition. It was keening "_yessssss_" so loudly that it was all over his face, apparently, because Moriarty grinned his reptilian grin when he said, "…_if_ you join me."

That was enough to draw Sherlock back, realize this affair was actually bigger than himself and certainly bigger than his monstrous but not necessarily unmanageable hunger. Sherlock sat back, rigid again, his back straight as a long, lean rod of barley. Despite the effort it took, he clasped his hands on his lap and crossed his legs. "No." He said, his voice determined, commanding, strong—certainly stronger than he felt. "_Never_. I _won't_ help you destroy London."

Obviously, this wasn't the answer Moriarty was expecting. His face fell, and then grew dangerous. He threw the platter against the wall next to Sherlock's head and stood up. "_Fine_!" He growled. "Go to hell! _Starve_, you _bastard_!" And with that, he swept out of the room as if he was wearing a long cape, and went up the stairs at a crisp pace.

Sherlock contemplated his victory a moment, then got up with some difficulty and dragged his tired limbs over to his coat, which still lay in the middle of the floor. Then, weak beyond repair, he toppled weakly onto the stone floor and fell asleep, the pain from his broken ribs colliding with the floor numbing his subconscious mind, leaving him blissfully dreamless.


	11. Stiffen the Sinews

_**Chapter 11: Stiffen the Sinews**_

From his place on the floor, behind closed eyes, Sherlock calculated.

He calculated that, due to Moriarty's evident but not complete suffering from a hand-over, he'd now been in captivity fifteen days and starved for sixteen. He calculated that besides two broken ribs, the whip wounds on his chest and cheek, and the lasting fatigue from both blood loss and starvation, he was sound in body and mind. Naturally, that didn't leave him going anywhere fast because of the weight of the chains, but he let that small fact pass to keep his chin up.

And anyway, the chains were getting easier to manage. The problem was that, even on his six-foot-seven-inch frame, the chains dragged two feet behind him, like the train on a wedding dress. To amend the previous statement, the ones on his feet dragged two feet behind him. The annoying thing about the chains attached to his wrists was that the chain hung down to his knees, making it hard to maneuver his hands. He had to do an ungainly version of one-legged skip-rope to sort himself out properly. Then, the chains were easily managed.

He didn't walk much anymore, simply because it weakened him so much to do so. He spent the passing days (three more will pass before we move on) lying on his makeshift bed drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to think and failing. Sometimes, he could feel the dull ache of hunger prick him through like a dagger had stabbed his midsection, and sometimes everything in his body was numb and he felt nothing, so that he had to pinch himself to re-orient his body.

After three days of oblivion had passed (eighteen days in captivity, nineteen days starved), he retreated completely into his mind palace. He visualized the great library, where all his knowledge was stored like a computer's hard drive. He pulled out the John Watson file for a moment and let it lecture him on his failing health and the hallucinations that were going on behind his eyelids. (This is something a better-fed Sherlock would look back upon and feel mortified about.) Naturally, Sherlock didn't care he was going insane. Which should've sent off warning bells in his head, but whatever, right?

It was Jim Moriarty we have to thank for bringing our Sherlock back from the edge of a famine-induced permanent dream world. Well, Jim Moriarty…and Bakewell tarts.

Another day had passed. So, nineteen days in captivity, twenty days starved, then, for those of us keeping track. Sherlock had forced himself to sit up just moments ago and was now massaging his temples with his long, bony fingers, trying to dispel the headache that was now plaguing him, when his oversensitive ears heard a deafening noise.

Sherlock cried out in pain, for after days of being in relative silence, even the softest noise sounded like the front row of a rock concert. He covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tight, whimpering as he was reduced to a thin, bony bundle in the fetal position on the floor.

It didn't take long for Sherlock's ears to adjust, and he sat up sheepishly on the floor, his chains rattling as he fixed his hair and untucked his shirt from his pants. Of course, his pants weren't doing all that great of a job holding his shirt in place, not to mention the smallest loop on his belt was too big, and essentially, his hips held his pants in place, but still it was a small comfort. He paid no attention to Moriarty, who was humming, setting up a white lace tablecloth on the table for one and dusting off the chair with a handkerchief.

The consulting detective tried to walk tall and without any pain or suffering evident in his stride, but he looked a bit like a newborn foal as he navigated unsteadily towards where he'd put his toothbrush and toothpaste. He brushed his teeth (after admittedly neglecting his hygiene for four days) and combed his hair. He sighed, knowing he must stink to high heaven right about now. He wanted a shower. And deodorant would be nice, too. _At least I could eat it if I got desperate_, he thought. And then, he scolded himself: _Stupid! Stupid!_ for even _thinking_ about eating something that had no nutritional value whatsoever and would probably make him sick.

Now, he paid some attention to Moriarty. With a detached, selfish air not uncommon in Sherlock's repertoire but played up even more due to the carelessness of the starved, he watched his nemesis set up a small platter. The silver obscured it from view, and Sherlock could only distinguish jam as a smell and so had no clue what it was. Moriarty turned his chair around so he was facing Sherlock who, by now, was resting calmly against the bars, his chains clinking merrily against the iron bars.

"I realize we rushed things a bit," Moriarty said coolly, his fingers playing over the surface of the silver. "I asked you to join me, without even telling you how much _fun_ it is to work _against_ the law!" He giggled. "You'd never have to share credit, Sherlock. All your work would be your own. You could write about it any way you want." Moriarty combed a flyaway with his finger, using the unsteady reflective surface of the silver as a makeshift mirror.

Sherlock's guard went up so fast, the change in mannerism actually made him dizzy. He laughed to himself between his fingers as he realized that to be stroppy took energy—energy he _didn't quite have _but sort of made room for anyway—and then crossed one ankle over the other, rested his arms overtop one another, and leaned all his weight against the bars in this fashion, his back almost a ninety degree angle. He alternated between lifting his head and resting his chin upon his arms, and thought about Moriarty's words. He didn't consider the proposition, but he did note how tempting it would've sounded…had Moriarty got to him before John. Because John, his best friend, was worth any sacrifice. Now, the proposition sounded ridiculous, and his mental lingering upon the subject was only to form a smart-alec response. Which he voiced in a determined, commanding voice heavy with sarcasm and wit: "Tempting, really, Moriarty. Sounds _wonderful_, but I think I'll keep my cards."

"Oh, I'm _far_ from done!" Moriarty folded his hands on his knee. "You see, Sherlock, you'd get your very own lab, complete with everything you'd need to do your experiments. You'd also get to be _free_,"

The words that came after this hit Sherlock home. He narrowed his eyes and listened intently.

"The first thing you'd get to do would be to choose your method of assassination for all those pretty little pets you keep. All those people you know you don't care for. Because, in the end, you're like me, Sherlock." He smiled. "You're like your brother, now _he's_ got the right idea. The Ice Man." He leaned back, victorious like a well-fed snake, that reptilian face aflame. "Because there's something wrong, something _weak_ about those who care too much, don't you think? It makes it hard to be logical, right? Can't you feel it, _clouding your judgment_?" He giggled, and Sherlock felt he had to snap.

"That's a lie!"

"Is it?" Moriarty asked, an amused, hysterical uptick in his voice. "Sherlock, we wouldn't be in this position if you didn't care so much about your little lapdog doctor, oh no. You'd be back home in your flat, sipping tea, eating dinner, which I can see you're in desperate need of, Sherlock. Dolly." Sherlock bared his teeth in a sneer. "You _know_ it's true. Surely I don't have to spell it out for you. And, once we shake on this beautiful little deal," Moriarty removed the top from the platter, and Sherlock nearly melted at the sight. "You'll get these tasty little beauties. Then, we'll feed you up properly and you and I, Sherlock, will burn this city!"

A little known fact is that what clouds Sherlock Holmes' judgment more than the so-called "weak" care he has for his little "family," if you will, is his stomach. Oh, sure, when he's on the case, nothing will distract him. He can't count the number of times John has munched away on a full meal in front of him while his brain works hard and his body waits for a command and asks for nothing in return…!

But, enough is enough, says Sherlock Holmes' body. And when his body makes the stubborn decision to get fed, well, nothing short of being run over by a bus is going to stop it. For, let me assure you, the body of this genius is just as stubborn as his mind and his will. And it will get to the point that, if Sherlock doesn't eat or is prevented from eating and no case gets in the way, the beautiful mind palace will turn into thoughts of food. And Sherlock will dream of devouring an entire roast lamb or two, picking off the last of the meat from the bones and sucking out the marrow until there's nothing left, miles of pasta warm and buttery, swallowed whole by a too-thin, underweight man, sweet little Bakewell tarts made just right, through the teeth and far past the gums.

And our poor, famished, sick, delirious consulting detective will want to do nothing except eat and eat and eat until he is satisfied, sleep it off, and then awake refreshed and ready for the next case. And Sherlock's stomach, twenty days empty and far too hungry to bother telling Sherlock with noise, wanted food.

And Sherlock's mind agreed with Sherlock's stomach. In fact, every bit of Sherlock agreed with his stomach: _eat, Sherlock_, his body and mind told him. _Eat and you'll feel __**so**__ much better_!

Twelve perfect little Bakewell tarts lay spread out before him on the platter. They were freshly-baked and so warm still that Sherlock saw the heat wafting off of them in the form of white-hot smoke. Each little cake was framed by a flaky crust, lightly browned from the oven. Twelve little tarts called to Sherlock's empty stomach: _Eat me! Eat me!_

Sherlock wet his thin, cupid's bow lips, betraying his immense hunger. Twenty days. It was the longest he'd ever been without so much as a crumb of food, not to mention that his last meal had not even been something marvelously filling like chicken or roast lamb, no, but toast. And half a slice, no less! He swallowed, faint and weak and famished and, oh, how he _ached_ from head to toe! Pain burned like a fire through his weakened body, pain from his many wounds, pain from his hunger, his headaches, his muscles. It was almost too much to bear.

And then, Sherlock remembered John. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly. And remembered also that he was the only defense that any of them—hell, that all of _London_ had—against the consulting criminal Jim Moriarty. And he felt a bit of responsibility on his shoulders. But it wasn't a crushing blow, one that he was unwilling to take, no. It felt like a feather had landed on his head.

So Sherlock stood up, stood tall, relaxed his arms by his side, clenched his bony fingers into fists, stretched his long neck up, and let his deep voice rumble out: "No. I will _never_ join you. Not if you offered me the _earth itself_!"

Moriarty frowned, and then laughed a frustrated laugh. "Then Sherlock, honey," he began, his voice cruel and sadistic, "you will _never_ taste food again. Understand that if you continue to refuse me, you will never again be full. Daddy's had _enough_ now, Shirley." The dark, soulless eyes got a shade darker. Sherlock, who had not underestimated his opponent despite the man's innocent exterior, didn't even blink. "This is your _last chance_. Join me…or _starve to death_!"

There was a moment of silence between the two. Then, Sherlock laughed mirthlessly. "I would rather _die_ than kill my friends."

"Caring only leads to suffering, Sherlock." Moriarty replied coldly. He took the platter away, eating a tart as he left and making orgasmic sounds.

Sherlock smiled, shook his head. After that confrontation, he felt that Moriarty was like a desperate child. Surely he knew that the consulting detective would be rescued, nursed back to health by a fantastic and caring doctor, and launched into battle twice as strong as before!

Sherlock sat heavily upon his bed and then lay defeated on the wooden plank. "Please, John," he whispered, closing his eyes, "please hurry. I've reached my limit."

And so he had. So he had.


	12. My Kingdom for a Horse

_**Chapter 12: My Kingdom for a Horse**_

"_Sherlock_…"

Sherlock was aware that it was early morning, twenty days in captivity, twenty-one starving. He blinked, sleepy, unwilling to realize he was awake. He was lying on his side on the wooden plank, curled up into himself to keep warm. His back was damp from the stray raindrops the drizzling sky brought him. His dazed gaze alighted on the outline of Moriarty.

Despite the early hour, he was fully dressed in an impeccable dark navy Westwood suit, dress shoes, and black tie. His hair was slicked back, showing off his pale face and large, dark eyes. At his feet, luggage was packed, and Sherlock detected movement from somewhere behind him—Moran, no doubt. Moriarty was also holding an umbrella, leaning on it like a cane. "Sherlock," he whispered, "we'll meet again. I promise. I'm not done with you. We'll be seeing each other very soon."

Sherlock drifted out of consciousness again, only awake enough to hear Moriarty whisper to his companion: "is the cab here yet?"

What awoke Sherlock next was the clap of thunder. Surprised, Sherlock started, sitting bolt upright, the chains rattling as he did so, his eyes wide in the dark room. Sherlock scratched at his neck absently and looked around. It was impossible to tell the time, as the sun was obscured by the thunderclouds and his phone had died ages ago (besides, it was in his coat pocket—Sherlock was too weak to bother getting up for a phone), but he guessed it was probably about one in the afternoon. He wasn't quite sure if it was the twenty-first day still, or if he'd slept through and made it to twenty-two, but he was sure he didn't care.

Sherlock yawned, feeling his jaw crack with the effort, and leaned back against the wall. The rain was falling harder now, and it was splattering through both of the windows, making a puddle on one side and dampening his shirt on the other. Sherlock sneezed, then moaned, as the action hurt his broken ribs.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion upstairs. Too funny. How could he possibly be hearing things going on up there? He hadn't heard a peep from the rooms above for the entirety of his capture! Except in a dream. Sherlock frowned, and stayed put.

"Sherlock," whispered a voice.

Sherlock sat up. "Rose?" He questioned, so unsure if things were real that he couldn't trust what he thought was her voice.

"Yes. Over here."

Sherlock looked up and saw her standing before the bars. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and was dressed not unlike most respectable young women in London, with the addition of a raincoat. She smiled at him as he wobbled over to the bars to speak with her.

"Where are the others?" He demanded, his eyes flicking back and forth in agitation.

"Jim left early this morning. They all cleared out and left me here. I don't know why." Rose grabbed him through the bars, dared to rest her head under his chin. "I'm scared."

Sherlock blinked, reached a thin hand through the bars. Slowly, he was beginning to see what had happened. Moriarty had figured out Rose felt for the consulting detective, and had put her on his hit list. Rose was no longer safe in London. As a former Black Widow, she'd get little privacy from the press and the police. She needed to get out. At once.

"You need to go, Rose," Sherlock told her, hugging her to his chest, providing comfort he knew she needed. "Get out of London." But his voice was less than affectionate, a demand, and nothing more. The charade was over: he was making it clear he did not feel for her, without speaking it aloud, in order to keep from shocking her further. "_Now_, if possible. It's not safe. Moriarty's after you."

"I figured," Rose pulled away from him, her smile shaky. Sherlock noted that she was trembling, tears falling from her eyes. He smiled weakly and leaned forward.

"Don't worry," he whispered, "you'll be safe. I promise. He won't find you while I still breathe."

Rose nodded. "Okay. I trust you." There was a loud bang upstairs, which startled the two of them, a not so silent curse following shortly. "I'd better go. I won't be able to get away if they find me." Sherlock was just about to question Rose further about _who_ exactly was upstairs when she kissed him on the cheek.

Momentarily stunned, Sherlock watched her retreating back with a silence he never thought possible: a silence inside his brain. Then, he concentrated on the noise upstairs. But it couldn't be…

"Search everywhere. This _has_ to be the place. Bloody hell, I hope we're not too late." It was Gregory Lestrade! Sherlock would know his voice anywhere! But…it had to be a dream, a trap. Sherlock did not allow himself false hope…but he stayed at the bars, anyway, keeping himself alert.

"I hope so, too. Twenty days. The outlook's not good." John! Sherlock reluctantly let out a sob. _Why_ did his mind torture him with such _vivid_ hallucinations? The consulting detective spun away from the bars in a violent motion and screamed. Yes, he screamed. Screamed, because he thought he was insane. Screamed because he was exhausted and famished. Screamed because, surely, that would be enough to wake him from this horribly sweet dream! Right? Because it _was_ a dream! It _had to _be a dream! It—

And then, he heard it.

"Sherlock?" John, calling his name lightly.

Sherlock had been reduced to a little, huddled shape on the ground. Curled like a hedgehog; on his knees, back hunched over, arms on the cold, damp stone, head hung, the unruly curls touching the ground, he was sobbing. And he sobbed even more each time he took a breath, simply because the crying hurt his ribs. And oh yes, Sherlock Holmes was crying. You did read that correctly.

Sherlock was broken: that was his only conclusion. Broken like some sort of wind-up toy. Most people would have told him it was all part of being human. Sherlock believed those as one grieving accepts words of sympathy: with emptiness and a cold smile.

"_Sherlock_!" This shout, very much like the desperate cry uttered when John had saved Sherlock's life the first time, seemed to come more from the heart of the army doctor than his lips. There were many footsteps, going towards the sound, banging of a battering ram against the door to the basement cell.

Sherlock Holmes pulled himself off the floor, the sobs still shaking his body. He brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He retrieved his jacket from the floor and put it on. His starved frame now swam inside it. Sherlock fumbled with the buttons and pulled the chain from between his sleeves. He washed his face of dried blood and grime. Then, he wobbled over to the center of the cell, waiting. Lightning illuminated the room behind him, so the great consulting detective was washed in shadow, the outline of a brilliant, human man, who had finally reached his limit but had done his best to hide it for the sake of…his reputation? Perhaps. Certainly. If Lestrade thought he was weak, he wouldn't respect him anymore. For John? Yes. Absolutely. If John thought for a moment he was suffering, well…Sherlock could imagine a lot of feelings—none of them good—that could be associated with John seeing him suffering. They were emotions that the detective did not wish to detect on his friend's face. Ever. For the rest of his life. (Their lives?)

By this time, the basement door was opened. Eager footsteps ran down the stairs. (_Don't slip,_ Sherlock thought.) A very anxious John Watson collided with the bars and a very relieved consulting detective met him there. "Sherlock," John whispered, his eyes filled with emotion.

"John." The name said so many things. Sherlock smiled. _My best friend. I'm so glad you're okay. See, I told you I'd be fine. Please have a look at my ribs; I think they're broken. Please let's have dinner. I'm starving._

"You okay?" John asked, silently assessing Sherlock for medical damage.

Knowing what sort of "okay" John meant, Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "Got at least two broken ribs, malnourished, but otherwise, yes."

John chuckled. "I missed you, you git."

"As did I." Sherlock replied genuinely.

"When you two lovebirds are done," Lestrade brusquely interrupted, "we might hear a plan to get Sherlock out."

John and Sherlock separated from the bars, but stayed close to each other. Best friends who silently swore they'd never again be separated because of course, no, it wasn't like _that_ between them. What was wrong with two guys just being mates, anyhow?

"Oh, yeah," John sighed, "we don't have a key for it."

"I could probably pick the lock," Sherlock replied, struggling to stay on his feet. With the initial adrenaline draining out of him, he was losing energy rapidly. "Need a burglar's tool, though."

"It looks rusty," Lestrade noted. "Think I could force it with a crowbar?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Lock's deceptive. You could try, though."

It took a moment, but Lestrade was successful. He'd brought a slew of Yardies Sherlock was not familiar with, who were sniffing around the place, looking for clues. "None of them are as good as you, Sherlock," Lestrade said as John cut the chains with a welder, "but they're eager as young scent hounds. They're bound to pick up _something_."

Sherlock smiled. "Let's hope so. We'll need all we can get to catch Moriarty."

John finished with the chains and stood. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Thank you, John." He frowned, and then his expression blanked as he passed out. John caught him and sort of propped the taller man up against him.

"He okay?" Lestrade asked.

"He needs medical attention," John replied. "It's probably not all that serious, but he needs to get home."

"He should be going straight to hospital."

"You know how he feels about hospitals."

Sherlock had stirred at the mention of "hospital." "No," he murmured weakly against John's neck. "No…hospital."

"See?" John confirmed.

"Right," Lestrade rubbed his neck. "Well, we'll get you a cab back to Baker Street."

"Thank you," Sherlock croaked before the blackness of fatigue dragged him under once more.

What did it matter? He was going home.

_So…? What do you think? You guys ready for the sequel?_

_What? You thought it was over? Oh, please! I can't end it on such a note as this! There HAS to be more! Although how MUCH more, I still don't know…but we'll see, yes?_

_Thank you for your reviews! I read every single one and smile! I never thought this would be as popular as it is…_

_Look for the sequel, __Recovering Sherlock__ very soon! See you on the flip side!-SH_


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